HALO: Not A Spartan
by Sabere Commander
Summary: The Insurrectionist threat surges on Genesis, the U.N.S.C. launches a fleet to counter them and wipe them out. Unfortunately, the Insurrectionists have taken over a fortress unbeknownst to them. Knowing this, O.N.I.R. is sent to infiltrate the fortress and retrieve a package before U.N.S.C. gets their hands on it. The plan soon comes unraveled when critical system failure occurs...


**Before You Read:  
** This story does not focus on cannon Halo characters. It is O.C. focused and features many original ideas, that may be used for you own purpose; although, I would definitely appreciate you explaining where the idea came from or if one of mine inspired yours, so to direct more readers to this story. The story focuses on a fictional event in a fictional setting, a fan fiction in its purest sense. The story will feature strong language and violence, so continue reading at your own risk. This story may be subject to erratic and infrequent updates.

I had a massive blast writing this story, which was the very first Halo fan fiction I officially came up with. I never posted it anywhere as it was just a brainstorm that lead to its birth. The story will have, for the very first time in my fan fiction record, an underlying message. I sincerely hope you enjoy my creation and that review it, so that I may know how it turned out. Well, with no further delays, I present to you...

 _ **HALO: Not A Spartan**_

 **I**

 _Blood, Mud, and-Ah Crud!_

* * *

With the slight distortion of light and a subtle hum as the only evidence of its presence, the dark peeled away before revealing a sleek star cruiser. It was a dull grey with white lettering painted across the side of its hull. It was large, incredibly so, and was moving closer to the planet below. The ship was registered as the United Nations Space Command (U.N.S.C.) _Trail Blazer_. The reason it had just arrived over the planet was because of the conflict that had been raging on the surface. It was a war zone across most of the planet.

The planet was holding an impressive stronghold for insurrectionist forces, specifically what was left of the movement. After the Covenant-human war began, most of the Insurrectionist forces had put aside their differences in pursuit of the survival of humanity. The remaining fragments gathered together on the world Genesis below. Whether that idea had been a stoke of genius or idiocy didn't matter at that particular moment. They had gathered enough people to pose a serious threat to U.N.S.C. controlled space, more than two-hundred thousand soldiers where in their main fort. With two battle cruisers defending the planet and multiple surface to orbit defense systems in place, the battle had turned sour. The U.N.S.C. had sent three battle cruisers and a ground force of forty thousand.

Fortunately, having the foresight to predict enemy resistance to be much more resilient than expected. The Office of Naval Intelligence (O.N.I.) branch had taken precautionary measures by deploying specially equipped reinforcements after the original U.N.S.C. fleet departed. The reinforcements were comprised of the private military branch developed by O.N.I. for O.N.I. Of course, this wasn't technically for O.N.I. as much as it was to prevent a major disaster that would give the terrorists momentum that would ultimately prove devastating to the war effort against the Covenant.

The underbelly of the ship was glowing bright orange from their rapid descent. It would be less than ten minutes before the reached the lower atmosphere, an intentional decision made by the captain of the ship. They were there covertly to aid in the mission, they weren't supposed to be involved with operations of that magnitude. Fortunately, the ship was equipped with image refactors which disguised the flying fortress as part of the planet's geography. The task force aboard the small battle cruiser used the remaining time they had to prepare for their incursion. The battle could very well be their last, for below them was complete carnage between U.N.S.C. ground troop and the Insurrectionist counter attacks. Of the soldiers greeting each other and saying what could possibly be their last farewells, one wasn't doing any of this.

The soldier was designated E-137, Eran F. McKnight. That was, of course, military gibberish for Echo company, unit one, third squad, rank seven. He had been laying in his quarters, fully geared, biding his time before they had to head down to the surface via drop ship. He wore what looked like orbital drop shock trooper (O.D.S.T.) equipment with what looked to be a combination between the standard marine helmet and an O.D.S.T.'s full helmet. The visor was taken straight from the standard issue O.D.S.T. helmet; however, the rest of the helmet was completely marine, even the black face mask covering the neck and mouth, despite the visor acting as a blast shield. His armor was decorated with a dark black and a dark navy blue for his secondary color, which was just the color of the thick colored stripe running down his shin plates and gauntlets.

The petty officer first class was trying to relax prior to the drop to ground level. His nerves had been racked with tension since the announcement was made post-slip space jump. Two companies were being dropped onto the battlefield, which summed up to approximately two hundred soldiers armed to the teeth with the best weaponry that O.N.I. could afford. From there Echo company and Alpha company would divide into their respective squads of twenty. Their mission would have them deployed on the side of the fortress opposite of U.N.S.C. forces, which meant reinforcements would be a no show. Typically, this would be stressful enough considering the sheer mass number of the Insurrectionists holding the stronghold. Because the mission was covert, it could never be as simple as capture the base from the opposing flank.

Not only were they being dropped into a kill zone with abysmal troops compared to the resistance, but they had a time limit too. They were to infiltrate the place before fighting their way to the basement, one that is seven stories beneath the surface. Once at the bottom of the base, they needed to locate a package designated _Achilles_ and then secure it. Finally they would have to escape the fortress with the package intact, before U.N.S.C. forces gain a foot hold inside the base, prior to being picked up and returned to the _Trail Blazer_ and warping away, regardless of the outcome of the skirmish between the U.N.S.C. and the Insurrectionists. If you didn't return in time, or died, then you would be ghosted and all evidence of you being involved with O.N.I. would be erased. The entire situation had him stressed out beyond relief, so many things could go wrong that if he and the rest of their forces didn't pull it off perfectly, they would essentially be dead.

The gentle sound of knocking reached his ears from his bedroom door. Someone apparently needed to talk to him, but they were going to wait until he was ready. There was no reason for them to be calling on him anyways, he didn't believe in luck or have an superstitious beliefs. He never so the point, he never saw it save people when they asked for help or did rituals, so he thought it a bunch of nonsense to comfort the nervous. He wasn't nervous, he was stressed and there was a fine line separating the two.

"Hey, hurry the hell up! It's time to go!" The voice had been muffled by the door; although, it was clear enough for him to decipher what they had said. His head snapped left and looked at the digital clock built into the wall. He was confused how the ten minutes had flown by so quickly, but thought best not to question it. The last thing he needed was more stress over something as simple as letting the time go. He looked back to the steel door from his bed, which he still he yet to leave from, before shouting back to the person waiting on him.

"Hold on, I'll be there in a minute." He let out a deep seated sigh before he begrudgingly propped himself up onto his arms.

"Well you better double time it or your ass is being left behind." That particular line had him realizing just who he was talking to. It had been Juan F. Romeo, chief petty officer and his long time rival since being inducted. They were inducted the same time, served in the same company, and were apart of the same squad. They didn't hate each other, it was more of a friendly rivalry in which they would try to do better than the other. Needless to say, Romeo managed to elicit a chuckle or two from him, which helped him more than he realized.

He pulled himself off the bed and turned off the lights. Before walking out, he stopped and stared into the room that was assigned to him. It had a bed, his indention was still residing in the covers, a single drawer with a lamp on it, and a speaker embedded in the furthest wall. The floors were the darkest blue perceivable and the wall across from his bed had a massive touch pad mounted on it, displaying orange text on a mustard yellow background. He examined it all with an attentive eye and took a moment to consider how well O.N.I. had set up their rooms, as bare as the were, they must've cost an arm to make and furnish. Even though he wore his helmet, he let his lips curve up in the corners as he silently bid a farewell to his bedroom. He didn't believe in superstition, but he figured he could make the exception if he might never return to his room. It wasn't that he thought he would never see it again, but he just thankful for having such a nice room.

He came back to his senses while in the main hanger of the ship. The hanger was filled with cargo crates, personnel, soldiers, and some pelicans too. He was on the third floor, two stories above the ground level where the pelicans rested. Some of the squads reported to the pelicans, mostly important teams that had made a name for themselves, O.N.I. was very protective of what they considered valuable assets. He wouldn't have the luxury of being flew onto the battlefield in an air-conditioned armored troop transport. He would be joining his squad on the experimental convenient unarmed transports (C.U.T.s) that only held five troops on the roof while being piloted remotely from the _Trail Blazer_. They didn't come from the main hangers that rested on the sides of the hull, they were dropped from the underbelly of the ship that opens up.

The C.U.T.s, or the slang term cuts, were a grey color with four landing legs and five thrust engines, on the underside. They had no weapons and so little armor that most troops being carried by them were worried of being shot down by Insurrectionist foot soldiers. In their opinion, any, who in their right mind, would put the fuel tanks _exposed_ and unarmored on the sides of the craft deserved to be strapped down in one and forced to fly into a combat situation. Unfortunately, they were ludicrisly cheap to produce, approximately one twentieth the cost of the pelicans, and got the job down with minimum fuel costs. The worst part, as stated by many soldiers when interviewed about the new air craft, was that the troops had only a rail and a seat buckle to keep them from falling out. It was a nightmare for anyone assigned to fly in one, but O.N.I., for all their intelligence and ideas, couldn't resist saving money in that particular category when the alternative would be cut backs for the project.

If you or your squad weren't well known or heavily experienced, then they would stick you on a C.U.T. That combined with the few operations they actually undergo make moving your squad up in rankings and importance incredibly difficult. Only two squads lived long enough to gain the experience required to be awarded one, the other three were from squads composed of the top scoring inductees. That was something that stuck in his craw, not the top inductees getting the only pelicans available, but the fact that he wasn't in the top. In reality, his squad had been put together with fairly average and even some below average inductees. If he had to guess, the officers ranked his squad with a C minus, which would explain the overall low caliber of members. His squad was called STRYKER and he was the seventh in command.

He was in the mess hall, which was filled with various soldiers and personnel. Most were eating, some were talking, and others were working. There was no idle part, no dead weight on the ship. Everyone one had a role, a job they were supposed to do, and his was flying into proverbial hell to ensure they don't have to. He didn't dawdle because of how large the mess hall actually was, which was the length of three rhinos placed length wise. It always did bring up questions as to how O.N.I. managed to find this project of theirs without other branches noticing. Then again, he was just a soldier and they were the egg-heads after all.

He entered a very long corridor that was a dull grey, rather lifeless when compared to the seemingly glowing white mess hall he'd passed through. Along the left wall was a door that claimed to be a supply closet, if the sign was accurate that was. Directly across from it rested the armory, which was the one room on the entire ship every crew member had to visit regardless of status. For some strange reason, O.N.I. was really paranoid about spies being on the ship, so they insisted every member, even janitors, carry at least a magnum. He could see the reasoning, but he still felt it was a waste of money to give every employee on the ship a functioning magnum with multiple loaded magazines.

He walked into the armory and was greeted by a man standing behind a bullet proof glass window. The man wore a grey uniform and was, as his face suggested, bored beyond belief. He returned the gesture with a friendly wave and before pulling his identification card out, which stated all of his information with a serial number that could be used to check his last official order or assignment. This prevented people from getting a firearm with out being told to do so, and thus make any form of treachery or mutiny difficult. The man squinted at the card while it was pressed to the window. In the time it took for Eran to blink, the man was already typing on the keyboard. His fingers flew before he paused and let a confused expression rise to the surface.

"A lot of you are being equipped with the same load out, going for an operation?" The man raised an eyebrow in interest, but received only a nod to confirm his suspicion. "Wow, you guys sure are lucky. Ya'll get all the action and the girls. I kinda hoped I would've been like you, but I'm stuck behind this boring ass desk." He clicked the enter key on his keyboard and a panel slid out behind him from the wall. It had blended in so well that the petty officer didn't even realize it was there. "Ya like it? It's brand new and just got installed. Anyways, here's you stuff and good luck. Wish I could be down there helping you."

He checked to make sure he had all the standard gear first, assault rifle, magnum, and two fragmentation grenades. He then found his personal preference, the battle rifle, before finding additional treats. He had been given a supply pack filled with five days worth of rations, a first aid package, solar charger for his equipment, and additional ammunition with a single C4 charge. For someone with his profession, this was like a holiday being so well equipped; although, it did raise alarm bells as to why he was given the items. O.N.I. tended to be cheap when it came to supplying troops in combat scenarios, so the fact that they deemed all of that equipment necessary to complete the mission disturbed him on a deeper level. He turned and went to walk out before pausing at the door. He didn't look back at the man surely staring at him for his unnatural behavior, but he did decide to comment on the earlier statement.

"Be glad you're up here kid and not down there with us. It's better that way." He walked out of the room and made his way down the hall. He didn't here if the man on armory duty replied, but he didn't care if he did. People make their own decisions, the best he could do was give them hints of the right direction. When he returned from his thoughts, he was already in the secondary hanger. He needed to find where they placed his squad, who were no doubt already strapped in and waiting for him. The idea of his commanding officer (C.O.) shouting at him gave him the motivation to pick up the pace. Fortunately he found his squad in under thirty paces from the front door.

"It's about damn time, get your as in here McKnight!" It was Romeo, who was sitting in the first C.U.T. with STRYKERs one through four, him being ranked fifth in the squad. Unfortunately, Eran was the last one from his squad to climb into a C.U.T. which placed in in the forth and earned him an earful from the C.O. They all had to wait five more minutes before everyone was fully strapped in and ready to deploy. It was at that moment that the loud speakers installed in the hanger went and signaled a message from the high ups.

"Brave men and women of the O.N.I.R. project, you are about to be deployed into an active battle zone between U.N.S.C. forces and Insurrectionist forces." The announcer paused and let that information sink into some of the troops. "It should be obvious that, with odds stacked against your survival so much, many squads will be wiped out entirely. That is why, after this operation, we are going to rebuild squads based on survivor performances. We urge you to do your best and get the mission done as efficiently as possible, for your future and ours." The speech, which Eran wondered if it was their version of a pep talk, cast a shadow of negativity across all the troops.

It was no longer about whether your friend would survive, or whether you would come out unscathed. It had become about out performing your squad mates in order to move up. Such ideals, if instilled into the wrong minds, or even the unprotected, could influence treachery. Red lights flooded the hanger as he thought of how O.N.I. was betraying the U.N.S.C. by even having the O.N.I.R. project. He connected the dots between the situation O.N.I. put them in and the one O.N.I. was in themselves.

" _I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree._ " He managed that brief thought before the hanger door opened and released the majority of the squads. His leader only had time to inform them what voice channel they'd be operating on, which was channel f-

 _ **-THREWM-**_

The sound of their C.U.T.s being ejected made Eran, now designated seven, unable to hear what his C.O. was saying. The rush of wind following their drop drowned out any further noise, other than the sound of explosions in the distance. The sound drew his eyes and he nearly gawked at how massive the fortress was. If one thing from the O.N.I. briefing wasn't a lie, then it was how inaccurate the U.N.S.C.s information was. This was no stronghold, it was a fortress the size of a freaking city.

The C.U.T. shot forward at an angle with no warning, following the trail set by the others. He looked down below and saw the land rushing by at an impressive speed. The ground below was a hard, rocky, dessert with spots of greenery dotting the land. There were mountains that were some distance away from the fortress, but aside from those few things, nothing was notable. The horde of air craft split into separate groups of eight, making only five clusters. The action made sense when considering flak cannons and other anti-aircraft (A.A.) weaponry; however, they weren't in striking distance of the A.A. defenses. The only possible answer were the U.N.S.C. forces, he was sure O.N.I. wouldn't have been foolish enough to have dropped them behind their lines.

His ate his words when he saw masses of green ahead, all of the U.N.S.C. forces by the looks he could make out. He was infected by the feeling that perhaps his earlier assumption of O.N.I. being full of egg-heads and knowing the best was hasty generalization. While he was spying on the soldiers below, seemingly unaware of them flying over their heads, he felt some one tug on his shoulder. He turned his head back to his team for the mission, STRYKERs Sixteen, Seventeen, Ten, and Twelve. They had put a finger over the mask were their mouth would have been. When he tilted his head in silent questioning, number Sixteen began typing on a tactical pad (tac-pad) built onto his forearm. A moment later and his tac-pad lit up with a notification.

When he accessed it, bright orange text appeared across the screen and the background dimmed to a burnt orange color. According to sixteen, the C.U.T.s had been updated relatively recently, a image refactor being added to the ship to make it near invisible. It would apparently allow them to bypass the U.N.S.C. and the Insurrectionists without trouble. They were still visible and audible, so it was best to stay low and quiet until the reached the drop zone (D.Z.) as Sixteen put it. Unfortunately, because it was a new update to the C.U.T.s systems, it was still experimental, along with the fact that the C.U.T.s themselves were as well, this made problems.

"Woah, what's happening?" Seventeen asked, she was the only woman in the group and the highest ranked.

The C.U.T. began to jerk awkwardly, like it was experiencing some sort of turbulence. The jerking caused many of the occupants to hang on the rails. Each of them, to their horror, saw the refactor failing and glitching out. "Was this supposed to ha-ppen, ah!" The C.U.T. began to do circles in the air before what sounded like backfire from an old world truck erupted from the rear. To their relief their ride managed to stable out and fly straight again. This was not the end, because no other time proved Newton's law truer than then for those five soldiers. Their refactor began digitizing before completely fading away.

"Shit! Our cover's gone!" Ten shouted, only to be punched in the arm by the Twelve.

"Be quiet or they'll hear us!" Ten replied be giving an incredulous look to his comrade; although, he couldn't see it because they were all wearing helmets that blocked their faces. Ten nearly shouted at Twelve until his ears bled over how idiotic his comment was. He wouldn't though, for their sole female shouted a warning to them.

"S.A.M.s incoming!" The C.U.T. dodged the missile at the last second and began to behave more radically, so as to prevent the missiles from locking onto their form.

"What in the hell is with this thing?!" Ten shouted once he was nearly thrown off, the buckles doing little to actually keep in the vehicle compared to keeping him attached to it. He tried to scream again, only for the all to iconic whistle from a missile come close to ripping one of them off. The whole time they were closing in on the Insurrectionist fortress. The C.U.T. veered off right to avoid a missile; however, the design problem with the C.U.T.'s piloting system was the fact that the camera was center in the front. This being as such, they pilot's feed suddenly turned into static when the C.U.T. veered into an obscure missile.

The entire vehicle burst into dark smoke and began plummeting towards the ground. It spun around, disorienting the the occupants until it finally crashed into the ground where it kicked up dirt clouds and carved a trench into the Earth. STRYKER's forth C.U.T. had been shot down after a system malfunction and the others could only watch with various reactions. The other squadrons felt disappointment, some squads pitied the fallen team, others still felt despair upon seeing it fall so quickly, while the rest of STRYKER tried not to let sadness overtake them. They would have to move on, regardless of losses. While they would be missed, the rest of O.N.I.R. had an operation to accomplish...


End file.
